Betrayal (39 page)

‘Where is he serving now?’ Drake asked, eager to learn more.

‘He isn’t,’ Miranova said. ‘He retired from FSB service in the wake of the massacre.’

‘Why?’

Miranova cocked a dark brow. ‘I believe the Americans have a saying for this – “carrying the can”? If I had to guess, I would say that a lot of the blame was placed on his shoulders. He was likely pressured into resigning.’

‘So Demochev and Masalsky get promoted while Kalyuyev takes the fall for Beslan,’ Drake mused. ‘Now we’ve got a man who’s angry, bitter, well acquainted with the FSB’s protocols and probably still has contacts on the inside. A man who could give our mystery woman the secure ID card she needed to access the compound in Grozny. A man who could have found out the route your convoy planned to take through DC.’

The scattered clues and fragments of information seemed to be coalescing in his mind with every passing moment, the pieces coming together at last, forming a conclusion that was so real, so solid that he couldn’t believe he’d failed to see it before.

Miranova had heard enough.

‘Whether he is a suspect or a victim, Kalyuyev must be our priority,’ she said, reaching for her cellphone. ‘We must find him.’

Physical surveillance teams would take time to arrange, but Kalyuyev’s emails and phone calls could be tapped within a matter of minutes. Soon, everything he said and did electronically would be tagged, logged and analysed by a team of experts trained to look for anything out of the ordinary.

Moscow, Russia

‘Good evening, sir,’ the security guard said, giving Roman Kalyuyev a polite nod as he swept past. He received no acknowledgement. Kalyuyev’s mind was on other matters tonight.

As usual, his BMW had been started up and driven to the front door, the engine ticking over for a few minutes to give the heaters time to warm up. It was a courtesy afforded to most of the senior executives of Novobyrsk Engineering.

It wasn’t a particularly cold night in Moscow, the temperature hovering close to freezing, but Kalyuyev angrily pulled up the collar of his overcoat anyway as he stomped towards the waiting vehicle.

Slumping into the padded leather driver’s seat, he let out a long sigh, reached up and loosened his tie. It had been a difficult week, and not because of anything work-related. Rather, his unease stemmed from the email he’d received several days earlier.

Deceptively innocuous, tucked in amongst the spam and the work chatter and personal correspondence was a message entitled simply
Information
.

He must have read its contents a dozen times, his mind endlessly chewing over the brief missive that had so shattered the comfortable prosperity of his new life.

Dear Mr Kalyuyev
,

I have information relating to the events of September 2004 that I believe will be of interest to you. We should talk about this. I wouldn’t wish for the wrong people to learn what I know.

Please reply to this email when you’re ready to speak.

He had done no such thing of course. To reply, to acknowledge it in any way would make it real, would give its author the desired proof. So less than twenty minutes after receiving it, he had deleted the email and done his best to forget it had ever happened. It was amazing what a man was capable of forgetting if he tried hard enough.

But simply forgetting wasn’t enough, because the next morning another email was waiting for him, this time with a distinctly harder edge. The sender had informed him in no uncertain terms that unless he acknowledged the email, he or she would take the evidence to the world’s news media, that Kalyuyev would be ruined publicly and that he would spend the rest of his life behind bars.

Faced with such a threat, he had finally bowed to the inevitable and replied, asking what his mysterious stalker wanted in return for silence. Within an hour, he’d received a simple reply:

Half a million euros, cash. I’ll contact you with more information soon.

That had been three days ago. And as yet, he had not been contacted again.

With a frustrated sigh, he reached out and switched on the CD player, pulling away from his office with Tchaikovsky’s Fourth Symphony playing through the car’s powerful speaker system. The soothing rhythms of the composition – his favourite of the great composer’s works – always helped relax him after a stressful day, and this evening he needed it more than most.

Pulling out on to the main drag that ran parallel to the dark waters of the River Moskva, he tapped a cigarette from the pack in his jacket pocket. He used the car’s lighter to get it going, taking a long slow draw as he eased his way through the evening traffic.

By the time he’d arrived back at his spacious city-centre apartment, the combination of music and nicotine had gone some way towards alleviating the tension within him. The generous glass of vodka he poured for himself as soon as he’d discarded his coat was, he hoped, enough to finish the job.

He’d barely taken his first sip when his cellphone started ringing, the vibration causing it to do a slow dance across the granite kitchen worktop.

Kalyuyev let out a sigh of vexation. Couldn’t a man have five minutes to himself?

Snatching the phone up, he took a gulp of vodka before answering. ‘Yes?’

‘Roman Kalyuyev?’ The voice that spoke was female, soft and not unpleasant, though with a cold, clinical edge to it that warned this was no idle social call.

He set his glass down on the worktop. ‘Who is this?’

‘You know who.’

If he’d had any doubts about the identity of his caller, they vanished in that moment. ‘How did you get this number?’

‘That’s not important, Mr Kalyuyev. What
is
important is that I have what you want, and I’m ready to make our trade.’

‘All right,’ Kalyuyev said. ‘I’m listening.’

‘Be at Poklonnaya Hill, by the obelisk, tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. I’ll find you.’

He might have laughed if the situation had been different. One of the biggest landmarks in the city, Poklonnaya Hill wasn’t easy to miss. She certainly had a flair for the dramatic, if nothing else.

She was also naive enough to assume that meeting in a public place was any guarantee of safety. Even at a busy landmark like that, Kalyuyev could kill her a dozen different ways and still get away with it. He had, after all, been a Spetsnaz commander for nearly a decade before moving into the shadowy world of the FSB. He knew all too well how easy it was to make people disappear, and if necessary he’d make it happen tomorrow.

‘I’ll be there,’ he promised.

She hung up without acknowledging him.

Kalyuyev snatched up his glass of vodka and strode through to the bedroom, kneeling down at the foot of the bed to retrieve the cardboard box hidden beneath. Taking another gulp, he flipped the lid off to reveal the gleaming black metal of a USP .45 semi-automatic.

Yes, he’d be there tomorrow all right. And whoever this woman was, he’d make sure she told him everything she knew about Beslan.

Grozny, Chechnya

With surveillance teams now hard at work following Kalyuyev’s every move, Drake and the others had returned to the FSB field station in Grozny to await further reports. For Drake, it was a chance to clean himself up a little and get his head together. He could certainly use the breathing room.

Leaning over the sink, Drake cupped his hands and splashed cold water on his face. He had changed out of the combat gear he’d worn for the assault on the airfield, donning civilian clothes that were still dry and relatively clean. But none of this could change the fact that he looked like shit, he concluded as he surveyed his reflection.

His face was drawn and haggard, marked by cuts and bruises from his recent confrontation with Anya, his eyes circled by dark rings of fatigue, his hair dishevelled and sticking up at all angles. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept properly; only that it had been a couple of days and many time zones ago.

But hurting and strung out as he was, sleep was impossible now. His mind continued to race, endlessly churning over everything that had happened in the past couple of days.

Again and again the same questions assailed him. Why was Anya doing this? What was her ultimate goal? And what was she prepared to do if he stood in her way? More important, what was he prepared to do to stop her?

What
could
he do? He had tried opposing her once already, and the results were plain to see in the mirror. He was no match for her.

But if he didn’t do something, the FSB certainly would. They had seen her face now, and would leave no stone unturned in hunting her down. She was responsible for the deaths of several FSB agents, not to mention two of their senior commanders. They would show no mercy once they got their hands on her.

Clenching his fists, Drake closed his eyes and lowered his head, every muscle and fibre in his body tightening in a silent cry of frustration. Over the past few days he had lied, manipulated, sacrificed innocent lives and put people he cared about at risk, all for a woman he barely even knew. How much further would he go? How many more people would he betray for Anya?

‘Stop this,’ he whispered to himself. ‘Get it together, Ryan.’

Looking up once more, he turned away and made for the locker where he’d stowed his rucksack. But no sooner had he pulled the locker door open than the contents tumbled out on to the floor. He recognised Mason’s distinctive Berghaus kitbag straight away.

‘Fuck,’ he mumbled, realising he’d opened his friend’s locker by mistake.

Stooping down, he snatched up the bag to stuff it back in the locker, then hesitated when he saw something lying amongst the spare clothes and cellphone chargers. A small plastic bottle filled with red pills.

He didn’t want to pry into his friend’s affairs, yet something about the bottle set alarm bells ringing in his head. Before he could stop himself, he reached down and snatched it up, turning it over to read the label.

The moment he realised what he was holding, his face darkened with anger. He hadn’t quite put the pieces together the last time he’d walked in on Mason popping pills, and had allowed the man’s unusual behaviour to slide rather than push a confrontation.

Not this time.

Clutching the bottle tight, he turned and strode out of the locker room.

He found his friend in the ops centre, watching Miranova and the other FSB agents while he sipped a cup of coffee. Even as he raised the cup to his lips, Drake noticed his hand shaking a little.

He glanced up as Drake approached, noting the younger man’s expression. ‘Hey, what’s up?’

‘I need to talk to you,’ Drake said, keeping his voice low. The things he had to say to Mason were best said in private. ‘Now.’

It didn’t take a genius to see this wasn’t heading in a good direction. Nonetheless, Mason knew better than to start an argument in front of their Russian companions. Saying nothing, he followed Drake out of the room.

A couple of minutes later, the two of them were outside in the parking lot nestled between two wings of the office block. It was a cold and breezy night, with flurries of snow carried on the fitful breeze. Still, the one advantage of the unpleasant conditions was the measure of privacy it afforded them.

‘I assume there’s a reason I’m freezing my ass off out here,’ Mason remarked without much humour. ‘Let’s hear it.’

Drake wasted no time. Reaching into his pocket, he held up the bottle of pills for Mason to see. ‘What are these, Cole?’

Mason froze, clearly shocked by what he was seeing. ‘Where did you get those?’

‘I could ask you the same question. This is pethidine, for fuck’s sake.’

Pethidine, a powerful opiate with properties similar to morphine, was often prescribed to combat chronic pain found in patients with terminal cancer or severe injuries. They were only legally available on prescription, and Mason’s medical report had mentioned no such prescription. Wherever he’d got hold of them, it hadn’t been from a doctor.

‘When were you planning on telling me?’ Drake asked, torn between anger and pity. ‘Or were you just hoping I wouldn’t find out?’

Mason at least had the good grace to blush. Of course he couldn’t have told Drake about this. The CIA would never employ field operatives who needed to be doped up on pain meds just to get through each day.

‘You don’t understand—’

‘No,
you
don’t understand!’ Drake hissed, struggling to hold his anger in check. ‘You think this is a game? You almost got yourself killed fast-roping from that chopper tonight. What if we’d got into a real firefight?’

‘I can still do my job,’ Mason said defiantly.

‘Bollocks, you can,’ Drake bit back. ‘I saw what happened earlier. You couldn’t even lace up your boots properly on the way to Glazov’s place. Now I know why.’ He shook his head, angry with Mason but even angrier with himself for bringing him into this. ‘Forget it, Cole. You’re done.’

Mason’s eyes flared with anger. ‘Like hell I am. We have a deal.’

‘
Had
a deal,’ Drake corrected him. ‘You lied to me. If I’d known how fucked-up you were, I never would have brought you along.’

Mason stared back at him, his gaze holding a mixture of indignation, disbelief and above all, desperation. ‘You want to talk about fucked-up, Ryan? Okay, let’s talk. How about coming into work each day stinking of drink? How about being so loaded when we went into that Russian prison last year that I could smell it coming out of your pores? How about being so jacked up that I could see your hands shaking?’

The look of shock in Drake’s eyes encouraged him to press on, not that he needed much encouragement. Eighteen months of festering resentment had at last found an outlet, and he wasn’t about to stop now.

‘Yeah, I remember that night real well,’ he went on. ‘I could have reported you. I could have had you relieved of command, but I didn’t. I trusted you to do your job, and guess what my reward was?’ He thumped a fist against his bad shoulder. ‘You got your little shot at redemption, Ryan. All I got was a world of shit.’